The Same Color
by Sandpuppeteer
Summary: AU. Gaara appears at Kankuro's appartment late one night and discovers that underneath it all, they're both really the same. (More bits for those few Kankuro fan girls out there).


_ AN: This is an AU. It takes place in a non-ninja world and is very heavily based on an RP I was involved in, in which I played Kankuro. Instead of being the Kazekage, the man that acts as father to these two boys is a senator. The entire thing was set in the city of Olympia, Washington. But that is irrelevent. Just enjoy this bit of a brotherly moment between these two screwed up sand boys._

What a fucking day, Kankuro thought. He boarded the city bus that would take him home. He took a seat near the back as the bus lurched from the curb and lumbered toward downtown. On the bumpy ride though the crowded streets, no one boarded with a companion. Everyone damn and disgruntled from days at work and failed shopping trips. A bus of soggy strangers was never a happy place to be. But he wasn't really there. He didn't see the old woman in the oversized rain hat, or hear the middle aged man trying to calm his crying daughter.

He was still back in his brother's dorm, listening to the strange phone call the room mate made. He was still leaving a note for the campus doctor, ensuring his brother's hand would be looked at. He was still at the obscenely busy coffee shop, cursing the college for existing and attracting so many caffeine deficient students. He was still punching that pony-tailed know-it-all, just because the boy was there.

Five blocks from the apartment building, the bus hissed to a stop, dumping Kankuro feet-first into a buddle. The water was drawn into his sock, through a crack in the sole of his boot, bathing his foot in ice and mud. He didn't notice. He walked home, left foot squelching with each step. The trip was just as eventful as the bus ride.

With two thumps and a thud, he dropped his boots and backpack into the corner. A permanent stain of mud and gunk creamed over the floor and wall there, from the last five years of that habit. He shed his soggy sweatshirt, draping it over the other items. He intended to throw it in the dryer later, if he ever ventured downstairs.

He ran a hand through his hair, looking over his mess of an apartment. His hair was heavy and slick. He hadn't showered since the day before yesterday, but the thought of bathing now made him weary even though he felt gritty. Grabbing a pair of boxers from the floor, he didn't bother checking their freshness. Most of his clothes hadn't seen the wash in at least two weeks. He just didn't have time or money to spend on laundry.

The computer whirred to life, as he depressed the unlabeled button on the tower. The fans buzzed away, even before the near-ancient monitor flickered to life. He leaned back in the chair, the springs creaking in protest, as he watched the static loading screen. "At least Macs have little icon things," he mumbled in boredom. He flipped on the desk lamp, illuminating the small area with sickly yellow light.

As he leaned back again, his eyes fell on the figure hanging on the wall. A wooden thing, about a foot tall, suspended by strings. The puppet's shaggy head drooped to the side, its arms drawn up. Why didn't he just stick it in a drawer like he always intended to? It was gift from his mother, the Christmas before her death. He was nine. She always liked exposing him and his siblings to new things. He first tasted squid when he was six and coffee when he was eight. He didn't like either. No amount of sugar ever made the coffee taste good. She liked hers black. One weekend they'd see the newest animated movie, the next an artistic children's production in an obscure theater downtown.

Once a month she took them to Portland for a day. She didn't want them stuck in that small city all the time. Just before Thanksgiving, they went to a puppet show there. The drive home took two hours, and he talked the entire way. He retold and acted out his favorite parts, nearly standing when he got over excited. Temari complained, but Gaara giggled heartily, clapping at Kankuro's valiant slaying of the back of the driver's seat, or a dark wizard, as he pretended it to be. In that two hour span, he mused over how the puppets worked and announced how great it would be to have one of his own more than a dozen times.

By the time Christmas came that year, he entirely forgot about getting a marionette for himself, but his mother had not. He kept it on a shelf, no longer interested in its mechanics. It scared him at night. Its wild brown hair and wide white eyes turned into the faces of demons in the shadows. He shoved it deep into a box, in his closet. It stayed there, under the junk of his teenage years, forgotten even when his childhood possessions were thrown into the dumpster. No more kid's toys, his dad told him. Kankuro was twelve.

At eighteen, he was kicked out of the house, as his older sister and younger brother remained at home. They were still in school. They _needed_ support. As he unpacked his scant belongings in the only apartment he could afford, he came across the jointed, wooden man. He'd stuck it there on the wall, just to keep it from getting broken or lost in the shuffle of boxes. It was going back into a box, he'd told himself. But, five years later, it still hung from the original tack. He was sure if he moved it, there would be a perfect outline, where it guarded the wall from grime and nicotine.

The computer chirped out it's completion of boot-up, with that annoying chime he always intended to change. But he always forgot by the time the programs loaded. He prodded the keyboard until "caffeinatedpunk3" appeared in the log-in box for instant messenger. Maybe someone worth talking to would be on.

Two hours later, the screech of the phone interrupted the movie he tried to watch. He'd abandoned the computer after only half an hour. For all he knew his friend from across town was still telling her long, drab story about why she'd been bitten by a duck at her job. He put in one of his month over-due videos, even though he didn't really watch it. But the noise of screeching tires and large explosions helped fill the silence of the room.

He found the phone under the mess of his desk. It wasn't cordless, but he still misplaced the seldom used device. "Yeah?" He asked into the receiver, not caring who it was.

"I got your message," his sister said. "What did he do this time?"

"Burnt and cut his hand. It looked like he lit the whole damn thing on fire."

"You said something about jail-"

"Same crap, as always. He probably threatened a cop when he was drunk, or something."

"You didn't have to bail him out. You know Dad-"

"No!" he said, louder than he intended to. "Just…don't tell him it happened, okay? Gaara's safer that way."

"You haven't been home in years, Kankuro. Dad's changed. He went to counseling. He stopped th-"

"Bullshit. That dick-wad will never change. He didn't change in nine years. Why the hell now?"

"He didn't _want_ to kick you out. He felt awful for-"

"-for not leaving a permanent boot print on my ass? If he's sorry then I'm fucking Jesus Christ."

"You know he did the best he could under the circumstances! He took mom's death h-"

"He took it out on us! Did you know Gaara's intent on _killing_ him? He told me this morning. And last week. And just about every fucking time I see him. That's not normal, Temari!"

"No, it's not." She admitted. "Dad wants to send him to a psychiatrist, after he comes back from his meeting in D.C."

"When's he coming back?"

"A week from tomorrow."

"I'll be sure to warn Gaara."

"Kankuro don't! This is-"

He didn't bother saying goodbye before hanging up.

After tossing the phone back onto the desk, he went into the kitchen and threw open the fridge. He grabbed several cans of cheap beer from the shelf. Tonight was no night to be sober. Shutting off the TV, he dropped back in front of the computer. Maybe with some mindless videogames, a full pack of cigarettes and his beer he could forget the outside world existed.

The world refused to be ignored. Kankuro had passed out on the couch, just barely unconscious. Again, he'd abandoned the computer. It took too much focus to remain in front of it.

It was sometime around three in the morning when a ring woke him. He fumbled for the phone, eyes barely open. The only illumination in the room was the monitor, and the vibrating quality made his headache worse. "What-" he picked up the phone, only to hear a dial tone. The insistent ringing continued.

"What the hell do you want!" he demanded after finding the intercom near the door.

"Let me up," his brother growled. He sounded drunk.

"God damn it, I don't need this shit…" he grumbled, pressing the button to unlock the downstairs door.

He checked around the room for anything sharp. He didn't want to supply Gaara with anymore weapons than what he brought with him.

The solid wood door tremble with the vicious knocks that fell upon it. "I'll kill you!" Gaara screamed, as Kankuro reached the door.

Yanking it open wasn't such a good idea. Kankuro winced as the fluorescent light of the hall assaulted his eyes. When the brief shock wore off, he saw Gaara threatening the empty hall with that ever-present switch blade. Though his eyes were wide, the whites visible all around, there was a hazy quality to them.

Kankuro rubbed a hand over his own face, trying to wake himself up. He needed a shave. "You're drunk, aren't you?" He slurred out. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

"I'm more than fucking drunk," Gaara shouted. He sounded like a person who couldn't hear their own voice. "That bastard at the club gave me a spiked drink and now I'm seeing shit and god damn it Kankuro put some clothes on you'll poke my eyes out with your nipples!" He barely separated his words, let alone individual thoughts. As he waved his hand around, Kankuro noticed yet another injury to his brother. The previously unwounded hand now bled, streaks running up his forearm and down his fingers. He couldn't see how big the cut was. If nothing else, he had to at least get that taken care of.

Not wanting to get kicked out for the noise, Kankuro grabbed Gaara by the shirt, dragging him into the dark apartment. "Keep your fucking voice down," he grumbled as he slammed the door shut. He dropped back onto the couch. "Now, who the hell did you say did what to you?"

"I don't know some fucker in a purple suit and I didn't trust him but when you get some guy that'll buy you bottles of vodka and are you going to put a shirt on fuck I saw that bastard and he wasn't there but he was there and I'm going to cut off his balls and shove them up his ass so that when he craps he'll crap all over his balls!" Gaara's volume didn't change. He paced back and forth, waving his knife around. A trail of blood formed on the dingy carpet in his wake, a few splatters adorning the wall.

Kankuro knew that would be a pain to clean up, and cost him if he left it. He needed to get his brother calmed down, so he could at least put a rag on that hand. "First," he sighed, "sit the fuck down. Second, who the hell did you see? Third, put down the fucking knife." As he talked, he blindly sifted through the garbage on the table to the side of the couch. Several empty beer cans toppled to the floor, not all from this night. His fingers closed around the shaft of a Bic lighter. He'd hoped for his Zippo, but that was probably the computer where he always left it. He fished a cigarette out of the crumpled pack and proceeded to light it.

Gaara didn't like that. His bloody hand fell over the flame, extinguishing it before it reached the cigarette. Gaara pulled both away, throwing the cigarette to the floor. "Don't fucking smoke while I'm around. I want to live long enough to kill the bastard and it makes your breath smell like shit!" He didn't sit down. "I saw _him_ I saw him and I was going to kill him but he left and now I'm here and why is it so fucking dark and I'm not going to put down the knife 'cause he can come at any time and when he does I'm going to kill him dead he's going to be so dead he'll die again and again and again I'm going to make him so fucking dead!"

"I'll smoke if I damn well want to," he interrupted Gaara's tirade. He knew how long his brother could carry on if unhindered. He thought about finding another lighter, but he didn't want Gaara flying off the handle again. "How the hell could _he_ be _here_? He's at some big fuck-off meeting in D.C. for the next fucking week. Now, gimmie back my smoke, if you expect me to continue dealing with this shit." He didn't want Gaara wielding fire in such a state.

"You want it? YOU WANT IT! You fucking want your fucking cancer stick!" he threw the lighter at Kankuro's face. It bounced off his forehead as he was too slow to stop it. Gaara brandished the knife, laughing. That maniacal sound still chilled his spine. "What the fuck am I doing here! I'm going to find that bastard and I'm going to make him regret the day he _ever_ touched me!"

Before Kankuro knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, gripping the back of Gaara's shirt. The younger brother's hand rested on the door knob. He hauled the red head around, throwing him onto the couch. "Calm the fuck down," he matched Gaara's volume. "You are going to fucking stay here until you're fucking sober! I am not bailing your ass out of jail _again_! I can barely pay my fucking rent as it is!"

"I can pay my own fucking bail this time and I'm going to go to jail over and over and over again until he's fucking bankrupt!" He pushed himself back to his feet, the knife held toward Kankuro. His hand shook, knuckles bleaching from the force in his grip. "Don't get in my way, Kankuro!" He yelled, as if the threat wasn't clear enough.. "I'll punk you the fuck up!"

Kankuro didn't necessarily want to be injured, or dead, but he couldn't have a maniac waving a knife in his face, brother or not. He grabbed the knife-wielding hand, his fingers engulfing Gaara's fist, his other hand planted firmly on the opposite shoulder. It felt bony, too thin. His arms trembled as he tried to force Gaara back onto the couch. "You fucking kill me _or_ him and you go to jail for _good_! Where they'll make dad look like a fucking grade-school bully!"

Gaara started losing his balance, but he still fought back. A twist of his hand, a wrench of his arm and he slipped free of Kankuro's grip. The force carried his hand forward until it collided with his brother's bare chest. Kankuro barely felt the blade. Gaara laughed wildly as he fell back onto the couch, pulling away the bloodied knife. "You think I care if I go to jail?" He said between gasps of laughter. "I don't care if he's fucking _dead_! They can't do worse than what he did!"

Kankuro stood fully. Why did his chest feel warm and sticky? "Will you fucking stop it! So fucking what if he smacked you with a broom handle for wearing shoes in the house! He did the same fucking things to me!"

Wearing shoes in the house was forbidden. One of the many strict rules that Kankuro had trouble remembering when he was young. Their mother never had such rigid guidelines. But _he_ didn't want mud tracked on the beige carpet. One morning, Kankuro had forgotten his homework on his bed, so he just ran in and grabbed it. Taking off his shoes would have made him late. He told the kids at school that he got into a fight with his neighbor.

Something shifted in Gaara's face. He looked tired. It was like watching someone sober up in a time-laps movie from high school biology class. "And then what?" He sighed. Calmer. "What did he do afterwards? What did he do _at night_, Kankuro? _What did he do_!" the calm didn't last long, but the rage seemed more subdued.

Kankuro did know; he didn't want to. He'd hear Gaara crying, late at night. He never said anything, never asked. Then, one night, Kankuro heard why. He arrived home late one night; out with friends, working late, a party. He couldn't remember why. He was sixteen. He heard his brother's sobs, muffled by the walls, but not from the younger boy's room. Their father's room. They were never allowed in there. Had Gaara broken a rule? Kankuro moved down the hall. Then he heard it. His father's voice. It wasn't the grunts that disturbed him, it was the things the man said. Just remember it made the bile rise in his throat. Gaara was eleven. Kankuro ran back out the door. He tried to confront his father, later. They were almost the same size. He thought he could stand up for his younger, smaller brother. Kankuro told his friends that he broke his wrist falling out of a tree. After that night, he'd hear them. Like his father _wanted_ him to hear it. It made him sick. That he couldn't protect that little boy. That innocent boy that had once laughed and smiled easier than anyone he knew. Some days, Kankuro felt brave. "You wouldn't do this if she were still here!" He'd warn, ready to fight back. He never let Gaara see. He was running out of excuses.

Did Gaara know that he knew? He let go of the bony shoulder, throwing an old blanket on him. "get some fucking rest." He never understood. He never knew why his brother got what he did. Some nights, he thought that if it had to be one of them, it shouldn't be Gaara. Kankuro told himself he wouldn't cry, if it were him. He was stronger. Gaara was weak. Innocent. Fragile. Maybe that was why. Gaara couldn't' fight back.

Gaara grabbed the blanket. Kankuro knew that look on his face. The look of someone who was near tears but didn't quite know how to cry. His voice shook. "Fuck you, Kankuro!" The balled-up blanket hit the floor and spread over the mess. Gaara pocketed his knife, blade first. His hand still bled.

The blanket didn't remain on the floor long. Kankuro picked it up again, shoving it at his brother. "I said get some fucking rest." He didn't want to deal with this. Not tonight. He went to his computer, let Gaara have the couch. It was also his bed, but Kankuro would sleep on the floor if he slept at all.

The room was silent. Only the settling of the old building could be heard. It was then that Kankuro saw why his chest didn't feel quite right. Where the knife had struck him wasn't the small nick he thought it had been. His chest was dark and slick with blood. It looked purple in the dim blue light. He could feel it on his thigh, where it had seeped thought his boxers. The silence shattered. Gaara let out a laugh as nerve-chilling as it was sudden. He laughed as he moved beside Kankuro. His bloody hand smeared over the screen. "Look at that," he mumbled, pulling his hand away. "It looked like that the first time, Kankuro. I know you don't want to hear it. You don't want this shit. You want to get away." He placed the blanket on the back of the chair. He'd carried it from the couch. His feet were slow, shuffling toward the door, as if he were afraid to fall over.

Kankuro stopped him, grabbing Gaara's waist band. His throat felt tight. Sour. "I…I know what happened…" he admitted. His voice cracked but it was calm. "Just…stay here. I've got some bandages for your hand."

Gaara's eyes moved to Kankuro, but not his face. The large streak of blood on his chest, partially dried and starting to itch. That's where Gaara looked. He placed his unbandaged hand among the blood, as if expecting it to be different from his own. "It's the same color…" he slurred, almost coherent. He laughed again, but it was short lived. His eyes drifted shut, his head migrating toward the floor. As he fell, his limp hand slid over Kankuro's chest, smearing their mixed blood.

Kankuro caught him before he hit the ground, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Looking down at the red head, he saw that four year old boy again. An innocence that showed through when the demons vanished. As he stood, lifting the younger one, he realized how fragile the boy was. Not quite twenty and yet he couldn't have been much over a hundred pounds. Moving him to the couch called up images of the one time Kankuro was allowed into his father's room. He was fourteen. Their father was running late for a Saturday meeting. "Your brother's sick." The words echoed in his head, still. "He fell asleep on my bed. Put him in his room." So calm, so void of remorse. Gaara's eyes were red. Kankuro asked their dad if he'd been crying. Kankuro was told it was just part of being sick. If only he'd known, then.

Kankuro removed the open blade form his brother's pocket, setting it among the clutter on the table. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was running on autopilot as he dug the first aid kit out of the kitchen. He'd bought it for this sort of situation. He cleaned and bandaged Gaara's hand. It was sloppy, but it would suffice until morning.

He had no choice, anymore. He had to shower. He had to get himself bandaged. He decided the apartment could wait until tomorrow to remove the blood from the apartment.

In the shower, Kankuro did little more than rinse the blood off. His fingers were dumb in his lack of sleep and refused to hold onto the soap. Before he dried his body, he tended his chest. A deep gash, just above his left nipple. Not even four inches long. He concealed it with a hastily taped on wad of gauze. He put on the first clothes he found outside the bathroom door: a worn out pair of pajama pants and a plain black tee-shirt. As he pulled the shirt over his still-damp head, he heard his brother whimper. "Stop…" He knew that sound. "Stop!"

Kankuro knelt beside the couch, placing a hand on Gaara's shoulder. He shook the younger boy, about to say his name, when he sat up suddenly.

"Don't touch me!" He shouted, voice trembling. His shoulders relaxed. He looked around, like he didn't know where he was. "What the fu…"

Kankuro sat back on his heels, dropping his hand to his lap. "You were…having a nightmare…" He knew Gaara needed decent sleep. He looked like he hadn't seen true rest in at least a week.

He remembered something. It was a long shot, but it might work. He dug through the junk that had fallen from the couch-side table until he found it. An old, abused pill bottle, nearly empty. Refill after refill kept his own insomnia at bay, those nights it hit strong. He pushed two of the pills into Gaara's hand. "You need these more than me. You won't have dreams if you take them."

Gaara looked at the pills in his hand, studying them closely as everything else he looked at. "I can't take pills," he said, simply. The pills dropped back into the bottle with a click and a rattle. The silence stretched until he spoke again. "What am I doing here?" His voice was calm.

"You showed up, screaming about someone spiking your drink, then seeing people who weren't there…" He pushed to his feet and stepped back from the couch. His foot landed on something smooth. Picking up the fallen lighter, he proceeded to light one of the errant cigarettes from the table. Gaara followed the white stick with his eyes, face sour. "Smoking makes your breath smell like shit."

"So?" He'd chosen to smoke a brand that smelled vastly different from their father's. More because they were cheap, than anything. He exhaled a could of smoke, pulling the cigarette down. All along his right arm, he could still see the faint circular scars. He was sure the deepest one was still plainly visible on his shoulder. It was also the first one. Their dad smoked. He'd sit in his large chair, after work, and light his expensive cigarettes with a fancy lighter. "Don't you kids ever smoke," he'd growl, the white stick held firmly between his lips. "It'll kill ya faster than anything. And if I _ever_ catch you smoking, that'll be the end." Just another one of his strict rules. Kankuro was thirteen. He'd been out with friends. A few months before, they had started him smoking. He forgot to leave the cigarettes behind. His father just had a good day, so he was celebrating with a fancy cigar, filling the living room with that awful smell. The man saw the small, crumpled pack in the boy's sweatshirt pocket. Kankuro was just glad the cigar hit a place he could easily hide.

"Did…did I kill anything?" Gaara asked.

Had he really been that out of it? "Not as far as I know. But you fucked up your other hand, and damn near cut my heart out.

Gaara let out one of his sudden bursts of unnerving laughter. "It'll heal. It always heals." He was always saying things like that. He sounded like he'd acquired the collection of words somewhere and was just parroting them at random, not really grasping their meaning. He snapped out a hand, ripping the cigarette from Kankuro's lips, his face twitching into a scowl. "You let _him_ get all the cancer." He jabbed the burning end into an over-full ashtray, a dying curl of smoke rising from the dish.

Kankuro, tired as he was, didn't protest. He didn't have the energy to make Gaara anymore upset. Snatching up a discarded tee-shirt, he went to his computer to attempt the removal of Gaara's blood. It had turned into a gel, clinging to the glass. Some of it came off, but not nearly as much as he would have liked. "He hated it when I smoked…" he said, finally. He was trying to explain as much to himself as to his brother why he picked up the disgusting habit.

"That's because he couldn't control it." He moved to stand behind his brother, watching his futile work with the blood. "Leave it. It looks nice there." For a while he didn't say anything. The silence made Kankuro uncomfortable. But the words that broke it made him more so. "DO you have any rodent infestations around here?"

Kankuro knew of his brother's means of taking out aggression. He used to see evidence of those rodent mutilations even before he knew what their father was doing. He liked to hide at the back of their property, when he knew he'd broken another rule. He'd prowl through the thick band of trees, enjoying the freedom. There he'd find the bodies of mice and other small rodents. He assumed it the work of stray cats. Until one day, his curiosity led him to find the wounds were much too clean for any vagrant animal. He never said anything about this to his younger sibling. It was his thing, disturbing as it was. So Kankuro didn't even address the question. "Take the pills. You'll be out for at least six hours. I'm out for eight on 'em…" He thought about taking two himself, just so he could get in some sleep. But a glance at the window advised against it. The sun was coming up, warning only a few hours until the start of work.

Gaara sounded annoyed. Maybe he didn't like his inquiry being ignored. "You can clean it up but I'll just come over drunk one night and bloody it up again, anyway." Again, he laughed. But it didn't have that maniacal quality it usually did. He sounded more tired than anything. He moved back to the couch and dropped onto the center cushion. He had that worn bottle in his hand again and he studied it, as if trying to figure out from where he knew it. Finally, he dropped one pill into the palm of his hand tossed it into his mouth. Kankuro watched his throat flex as he swallowed it dry.

"You need to take two for the dose to be strong enough." He always assumed that with his aversion to sleep, the smaller boy would need a strong dose. But as he watched the other stare at the floor, he realized how small he was. Kankuro almost thought he could pick out the individual bones on those thin wrists.

"Shut up." Gaara grumbled in return.

The pills worked fast on him. He looked as if he were thinking intently on something that angered him, but then his head began to nod. His eyes started to drift shut.

Kankuro gave up on the computer monitor. He could take some glass cleaner to it when he was more awake. He traded the old shirt for the neglected blanket, anticipating his brother's collapse into slumber.

When he finally did give in to sleep, he slumped onto the pillows, landing fully unconscious. Kankuro moved to cover the sleeping form. He looked so much younger, sleep taking the stress from his face. He looked innocent and vulnerable. As he unearthed another blanket to protect the boy with, he felt a string behind his eyes. He thought of how often Gaara would fall asleep in the car. Even if they had just gone to dinner. Their mother always said he looked like a little angle when he slept.

After ensure his brother was ell sheltered against the autumn chill, Kankuro sat down in his old computer chair. Once again, his eyes drifted to that puppet on the wall. It had seen all that happened within the apartment those five years. How much more would it bear witness to? Its wooden body and odd brown coat bore several new red spots, the tiniest splatters from the quick movements of hands. He couldn't discern which drop belonged to which brother. Gaara was right. It was the same color.

"We'll set everything right…" he muttered, running a hand over the puppet's torso. To whom had he spoken? Himself? His brother? Their mother? The puppet? He was no more sure of that than he was of what "everything" entailed.


End file.
